The curve of my thumb digs into the rind,

Crescent shaped wounds leaking saccharine juice,

It runs in rivulets down my fingers.

I peel back the skin,

Exposing the delicate segments.

Gently, I crack open the flesh,

Cradling the two halves like a heart in my hands.

The peices disappear,

One by one,

Until all I am left with are hands,

Stained with the smell of tangerines.